


100 Fairytale Fills (Non-ASOIAF)

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2130384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills from fandoms other than ASOIAF for the <b>100 Fairytale Prompt Table</b> on Livejournal. </p><p>Each chapter is a separate fill and acts as a stand alone story!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The girl who ran so fast - Minerva McGonagall

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm doing a bit of reorganizing - mainly, I want to keep my ASOIAF stuff separate from my non-ASOIAF stuff, as ASOIAF is my main fandom and I know most people follow me for that! :) So here's all my non-ASOIAF in one spot, so you can follow or ignore, whichever to your heart's content!

_067\. The girl who ran so fast_

From her first day at Hogwarts, Minerva is told that she is extraordinary. 

A hat stall is an extraordinary thing, they tell her when the Sorting Hat finally, _finally_ announces that she is a Gryffindor and with cheeks blazing at the hundreds of eyes that watch her curiously, she strides towards the table to join her new house. The Sorting Hat knows the very recesses of your mind, after all, and it is so rare for a person to be the equal sums of two separate houses. Are you truly as smart as you are brave? We shall see – that would be extraordinary. 

She is set the challenge on that first day, and she spends her life striving to meet it. 

Extraordinary does not come _easily_ to Minerva, however. She spends hours in the library pouring over her texts, the stack as tall as she, until the candle has burnt low and she must conjure another (and she is the first in her year to learn how to conjure fire, _extraordinary_ , her Charms professor beams). She commits the spells to memory, reading long after her eyes ache behind her spectacles, she arcs her hand in perfect precision, and relishes in all that has been denied to her for her entire life. Learning magic is like drinking from a cool well after years in the desert, like coming home to the warmth of family and hearth after running through the town in the pouring rain. It is sating a long hunger that she only somewhat understood before she first crossed the Great Lake. Learning magic, for Minerva, is healing a wound she did not even know she had. 

And when she practices for hours upon the Quidditch pitch, swooping and diving and racing, she wonders how anyone, _anyone_ , can go their entire life without flying with the wind upon their face. 

When Minerva arrives at Hogwarts, she is certain for the first time that she is destined for something greater than hiding those things that make her so different from the folk of her tiny town, she is meant for the extraordinary that is all around her, bursts of color and light and _life_. And if she works to be the very best at all she does, if her efforts make her talented, she is at least ordinary _looking_ enough that she fades in with her classmates, and that in itself is something new and exciting. How often had she felt eyes boring upon her and her family as she watched her father preach, _the preacher’s strange wife_ , they whisper of, _and the children, too, there is something wrong with the children._

Here, there is nothing _wrong_ with Minerva, she is a face in the crowd – a bright face, a promising face – but just a face, and anonymity makes her glow with pleasure. She advances, she grows, she is hung with awards and accolades that make her mother simultaneously beam and weep, and when she leaves Hogwarts she is every inch what they said she would be. She goes home with her head held high and her wand tucked into the pocket of a long red skirt, and when they whisper about Reverend McGonagall’s odd girl and the strange school they ship her away to, she pays them no mind. She feels for the first time, with her education at her back and her future looming in front of her, _extraordinary_. 

And yet eighteen and full of pride, she falls in love with an ordinary boy. 

Dougal is not _truly_ ordinary, though – he is handsome in a way that makes her strangely self-conscious, he is humorous in a way that makes her laugh until her stomach hurts (and she has always been so solemn, she is told, with her father’s serious long face). He likes to end a fight with a kiss, which _should_ , she tells herself with all her careful practicality, enrage her and not entice her. And fight they do, and yet he loves her all the same, all the _more_ , all the more when she bests him as she so often does. The timbre of his laughter settles in her bones and steals into her heart. 

And when he falls to his knees in the field before her, for a bright blinding instant of optimism she sees their life stretching in front of them, and that moment is enough so that she says yes. It is a madness she never thought she would partake in, and it makes her feel as alive as she did the first time she was allowed to freely flick her wand. 

When she arrives home, flushed and giddy, she creaks open the old wooden door and looks around the tiny manse and she thinks , _Dougal will want a home such as this._ Her mother kisses her forehead before she goes to sleep, and Minerva thinks it stings of regret, and suddenly she is less overjoyed, and more overwhelmed. 

She has heard the murmurs about her mother, about her brothers, about _herself_ , and she has seen the way her parents fight against the disillusionment of broken trust. _This is what awaits me_ , she realizes. She has never asked her mother if she wishes she had made a different decision, if she dreamed she had never married a Reverend from the rolling Highlands and she had instead moved to London and encased herself in the world that was her own. 

Minerva does not need to ask – she sees it sometimes in her mother’s eyes, when Isobel looks out the window, the world stretching before her and the windowpane between them. It is glass merely, but for a Muggle glass must be shattered and destroyed – for a witch, it can be vanished, easily, painlessly. 

When Minerva climbs the narrow steps to her room she sits upon her bed and puts her broom in her lap. _I shall never fly again if I marry him_ , she realizes, and her stomach twists, and the weight of the broomstick in her lap is suddenly too much to bear. She sets it aside and takes up her wand, her best companion – fir and dragon heartstring, firm and unyielding (much like her, her father had said when she told him, the small bit that he can understand of it). If she marries Dougal she will return to a world without dragon heartstrings, without the wind whipping in her face, without that contented feeling of _belonging_ deep in her stomach that warms her like a mug of tea. 

To marry him, she realizes then, is to life a world apart, to give up _herself_ and all that she is. 

Her breath comes in short bursts as she paces her tiny bedroom, three steps one way, four steps another, around and back again, the wand gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turn white. She remembers her mother’s face when her letter arrived and thinks that she never wants to be that mother, that woman, on the outside looking in, always silently resentful and always aching for what is lost, for what is locked in a box under the bed. 

Minerva presses her wand against her heart – she _loves_ him, she knows, but she loves her world and what it has given her – the freedom to be simply herself – all the more. 

They tell her she is destined for extraordinary things, and the next morning she races away on frightened feet from those who seek to tether her to a world made for less than that.


	2. With his whole heart - Robert & Minerva McGonagall

_045\. With his whole heart_

Robert McGonagall isn’t surprised, really, to see the light streaming out below the door of his eldest’s bedroom—in fact, he would be more concerned and disheartened had the entire hallway been darkened. It is a reminder that although tomorrow everything will change, some things at least, some small things, will remain the same, like his daughter staying up to all hours of the night with her nose buried in a book. 

He knocks lightly on the door before coming in, and sure enough, there she is, her dark head bent over a tome practically as large as she is. She looks up when he enters, pushing her glasses up her nose and giving him an embarrassed smile. _Caught, guilty as charged._

“You should be sleeping, Min,” he chides softly. He should be stricter with her, but it is difficult to be cross when she stays away to sate her curiosity, to learn about the world around her – it is a hunger he knows all too well. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

“I know,” Minerva answers, but she doesn’t sound excited the way she did when her letter came, the way she did when she came home with all of her school things from some…Diagonally Place?…with tales of creatures and enchantments and other children like her, outlandish tales that Robert would normally chuckle and mark up to young imagination if his wife wasn’t nodding along next to him. _Yes, that’s right, yes, I remember._

He perches next to her on the bed, and she hugs her knees in to her chest. Young, coltish legs and bony arms—such a child, still, and he can’t help but feel that they are sending her away all too soon. She’s just a little girl, his _only_ little girl. 

_Of course she can’t wait,_ Isobel had told him when he had asked, looking at him bewildered. _All children go when they are eleven._

He knows that his congregation clucks their tongue at the idea of boarding school, the same one Isobel went to, they tell everyone; and he’s glad that that, at least, isn’t a lie. But it just isn’t done, here—families do not send their children away, here. He hears the whispers, that his Min is _strange_ or _wrong in the head, like the mother_ , and he grits his teeth to keep himself from screaming, and tries to make sure that his daughter, at least, remains in the dark as to what is said of her. Oddities have followed Minerva since the day she was born, and it’s never been easy for her to fit in with the other children – not that he knows those strange happenstances have an explanation, perhaps it _is_ better that she will be going to a place where everyone will be more like her. 

At least, that is what he tells himself when he sits up at night and second guesses and doubts, when he is on the verge of waking Isobel and telling her that Minerva will stay home, where she belongs. 

“Are you reading one of your schoolbooks?” His question is cautious—he wonders if he is even allowed to look at her schoolbooks, when he cannot see her school or her magic or her world. His little changeling child, half invisible already and on the verge of disappearing. 

Minerva shakes her head. “No,” and Robert cannot help but feel relieved – had she said yes, what could he have asked from there? She shows him the cover of the book she is reading, and he realizes it is his book of astronomy. His interest in the subject has always raised a few eyebrows in his congregation but what, he argues with them, could be wrong with studying the designs God had so carefully orchestrated in the sky? “Mum says that they have Astronomy at school,” she says almost shyly, peering over the top of her glasses. “But not until third year. I thought maybe I could do some reading.” And now, a bit apologetically: “I should have asked you before I borrowed it.” 

He puts an arm around her thin shoulders. “It’s all right. I learned long ago that no book in this house is safe from you. And have you been studying it?” 

“Yes,” she answers, and there is a touch of pride in her young voice, her chest swelling. “The first few chapters, at least.” 

He considers briefly, and touches the cover of the well-born text. “Take it with you. If you have room, of course.”

She brightens, holds the book closer to her as though it were a doll – and really, Minerva had patience with her little brothers but had not time for dolls even when she was younger. When the girls in the village would pretend to be mothers, Minerva would be an explorer, an adventurer, any number of things that her novels had opened her eyes to. _She was always made for more,_ Robert tells himself, but it makes it no easier to let her go. “Really?” 

He squeezes her shoulders. “Really. And bring it back over your winter holiday.” _Because you will be coming home, won’t you? You’ll be coming home again?_

Her grey eyes—his grey eyes, really—are solemn when she looks at him. “I promise I won’t forget,” she says, and whether she means she won’t forget the book or won’t forget to come home, he does not ask. Which is more important, he does not need to say. 

Robert clears his throat, looking away from her bright face. He loves all of his children, of course, but there is no one quite like his Minerva. When Isobel had first revealed what she was…what their children would be…he had looked at his then infant daughter as a stranger, and a potentially dangerous one at that, full of secrets that he could never understand or uncover. But he had soon realized that Minerva may have Isobel’s lineage, but she had his eyes (and poor eyesight) and smile, his love of books and sense of morality and fairness. 

He had soon realized that all children are full of secrets, and that does not make them strangers. 

The world his daughter will join tomorrow, the world he knows his wife still calls home, may take her away, but she will always be his little girl. She will always belong with him in a way completely separate from words like ‘magic’ and ‘Muggle’ – whatever the latter may mean. 

“And you must take Annabel with you, too,” he says suddenly, blinking a bit against the sudden sting in his eyes as his eyes land on the family cat, perched as always at the end of Minerva’s bed. “Your letter said you could bring a cat, didn’t it?”

This surprises her more than the book. “Oh! But won’t you miss her terribly? Won’t she miss home?” But already her fingers are seeking, sinking into the black fur at the scruff of the cat’s neck. Robert had never liked the bloody thing – were it not for Minerva, Annabel would certainly be an outdoor cat. Instead, the mangy creature trails his daughter’s every footstep, a silent companion, a watcher. 

Robert’s never been gladder of it. 

“Not as much as she would miss you,” Robert answers honestly. “Goodness knows I don’t want to listen to her wailing every day until you return. She was always your cat, Min—you started bossing her around even before you could talk.” And there it is, that bright smile that is also his own. 

“All right,” Minerva agrees happily, and she pulls the cat into her lap. The last time Robert had tried to hold Annabel, he had gotten half a dozen slashes for his efforts, but the cat curls into Minerva’s belly with a contented purr, her eyes closing lazily. 

“I wish you could come tomorrow,” Minerva adds softly, and gently, Robert touches the plait of her dark, dark hair. The morning will be only the start of a million ‘can’t’s and ‘won’t’s, the pieces of his children – Minerva first, the boys soon to follow – that will be taken from him without his consent. Would he have had them at all, had he known how soon he would lose them to a world he had never even known existed? 

“Me too,” he tells her softly, and he kisses her forehead. 

At the doorway, he looks back, and she’s gone back to reading. In the morning, he’ll go down to the church for a dawn service, and stay late after to counsel his congregation. By the time he returns, Isobel would have whisked her off, and Robert only hopes that Minerva will understand that sometimes, the heart is too heavy for such goodbyes. 

He suspects she will. She is his daughter, beneath it all.


	3. Sin and grace - Elliot/Olivia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just porny porny porn, born of the headcanon meme that Elliot and Olivia have used the cuffs in bed before.

_008\. Sin and grace_

“Hands up,” Olivia orders, her voice that brisk, no-nonsense snap that gives perps pause and makes him hard as a rock as he complies. She’s won this time – like all aspects of their partnership, she wins more often than not – and Elliot licks his dry lips when the cold metal of the cuffs closes around his wrists, securing him to the bed frame. 

They don’t often use the cuffs. There’s something perverse about it – they’ve never been good about maintaining boundaries and not crossing lines, but they rarely forego them so brazenly. They’re fucked up enough as it is, the very least they can do is feel guilty about it. 

It’s always after a case they can’t see eye to eye on, the sort that has them up in each other’s faces, unable to wrap their minds about the other’s view. It’s reconciliation and reaffirmation rolled into one, that they can battle one another until they’re nothing but pieces, and then they’ll put each other together again. He’d wanted space in their relationship for them to disagree, but like they always do, they see that space between them and think that they’d better hurry and fill it with their fucked up brand of codependency. 

She straddles his hips, thighs flush to the outside of his, warm skin against warm skin, and she watches him without moving, her eyes dark and bottomless, enough to drown in. He can feel her against his cock, warm and wet, but he can’t move beyond the arc of his hips, when all he wants is to grab her waist hard enough to leave bruises, leave his mark, and thrust inside her and lose himself. Lose himself in her, as it is so easy to do. 

She studies him with the sort of scrutiny that would have him squirming, were it anyone else in the world. Naked with his hands bound above his head, he couldn’t be more vulnerable if he tried, and he hates it and loves it all at the same time. They’re cops, neither of them deal very well with being soft, being exposed. They both try and control the situation but normally there is an ebb and a flow to the way they move, a fluidity after twelve years together, the spaces they allow the other to fill with their need to flex their strength. But sometimes…they need a little more. 

He would never do this with Kathy. She’d never ask, first and foremost, but their marriage has always been rooted in Catholic family idealism. She’s the home and the hearth and the softness and gentleness, things he must handle with care lest they break, and he’s the strength and muscle, the protector. It’s where he’s comfortable, _how_ he’s comfortable, but sometimes it is a relief to just…let go, and put his fate into someone else’s hands. And he pushes aside all thoughts of his wife with the stab of guilt that he’s learning to control, because Liv has always been the only one strong enough to carry his weight. 

She _is_ strong, all lean hardness and firm muscle beneath the soft curves of her breasts and the swell of her hips, but it’s more than that. It’s in her eyes, that burning ferocity that keeps them alive, keeps them going when they’re running on nothing but cold coffee and colder leads. It’s the sharp edges made by her rough past, the places that could slice him to ribbons when he puts his hands to them, and they bleed all over each other until they’re a mess together. 

“C’mon, Liv,” Elliot orders, his voice thick and raspy, because he’s throbbing against her thigh and she’s tracing circles on his chest, running patterns over the scars there – they’ve always dealt better with the scars they could see. Knives, guns, they may try and take one of them away but the dangers that make him most wary are the ones he can’t see. The ones that live inside, and make her run. 

And he can be honest, and say he’s done his fair share of running, too, but sometimes it still gets to him, how easily she could just…disappear, if she wanted to. He has too much tethering him here, to New York, but she could vanish without a trace, start a new life at a new job in a new state far from him and the loaded layers of complicated bullshit that they pile anew every year, one on top of the other. 

Someday it’s going to topple, and he’s going to lose her. 

That’s what scares the hell out of him the most, makes him want to cuff _her_ to the bed, like he could keep her there, under his hands and mouth and tongue, keep her safe and keep her his. It’s sick and selfish and Huang would have a field day with him. With _them_ , because Elliot isn’t sure her thought process is so different than his own. They’re usually in sync, after all. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock and everything goes white. Her fingertips are cool and his skin is hot and he thrusts a bit into her hand when her thumb slides along the underside, even as he grounds out, “Careful.” 

She smiles a little, at that, and he realizes the irony – falling off that precipice and falling into bed together had been the opposite of careful. Yet in the end, it had been shockingly easy, for all that they had restrained themselves for eleven years. He’d always imagined when (because it had always been ‘when’ and not ‘if’) they finally broke, it would be like the world ending. Perhaps like the world beginning, as well. It had been both of those things, a little bit, but more than anything it had been easy, like coming up for air after years underwater. It had been a relief, too – the rush of the exhale, the burning in the lungs, the dizzying feeling of _at last, finally._

The strangest, and yet in some ways most unsurprising bit, is how easily they shift back into their roles as partners when the time comes. How simply the two facets of their relationship can coexist. 

It probably goes to show, he thinks, that they were fucked from the start. They were never only what they _should_ have been to the other. This is just the next step, the natural progression. 

She sinks down onto him – slowly, inch by inch – and instinctively he jerks against his restraints, wanting nothing more than to grab her hips and thrust up the rest of the way. She’s always been better at control, and there are times he thinks that she likes seeing him writhe, that she takes pleasure in driving him crazy. When their positions are reversed, he’s all about riding out the rage, fucking until they’re both raw, but she’s different. 

He’s the storm, and she’s the eye. That’s how it’s always been. It works. _They_ work. 

But even Liv has her breaking point, and soon she’s rocking against him, her breath coming short, her hands braced against the taut muscles of his stomach, her head tipped back. And even from his compromised angle, he can see the concentration on her face falter, can see the mix of emotion, the whirlwind, desire mixed up with stress, passion mixed with anger, with exhaustion, with _another day, another case_. Late hours, a young victim, a conviction but a sentence that should have been twice as long. 

She bites her lip, stifling a cry, and he pulls again. 

“Uncuff me,” he rasps, because her eyes are glassy, her nails biting into his chest – it’s been a long case, a tough one, and sometimes this release is all they have. It’s wrong but he thinks it might be the only thing that keeps them from flying apart in a million directions. 

Sometimes, he feels guilty for not feeling more guilty. 

“Uncuff me,” he repeats, as she rises and falls, pleading this time. He wants to embrace her, comfort her. He wants to wreck her, break her apart until he’s under her skin. 

“Not yet,” she pants, and she twists her hips, jutting forward, and he groans, and _fuck, Liv_ , and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on. 

“Uncuff me,” he demands a third time. The metal’s digging into his wrists, and he’ll have marks. Long sleeves it is until they fade; no rolling them up past his forearms, despite the way that Olivia’s eyes always linger when he wears them like that. He likes that – likes when she’s looking at him, likes when he _knows_ she’s looking at him. 

Maybe it’s his tone; maybe she’s just tired of hearing him ask, but she acquiesces this time, rising enough to reach his wrists, and he moans in half-dismay when he slips out of her. As soon as he’s free, he has his hands on her, sitting up so that he can feel her breasts against his chest, sliding his palms over her hair, along her back, tracing her spine down to her ass until he can lift her just a bit and he’s inside of her again. She braces her feet on the headboard behind him for leverage and he kisses her everywhere he can reach as they move together like drowning people; he clings to her like that could save him. Until finally, he feels her come around him, her gasp caught in her throat as she claws against his back. He kisses her hard, wet and open-mouthed and her teeth graze his lip. 

He lets go then, his fingers in her hair and her name on his lips. 

He doesn’t release her right away – he always likes how she feels in his arms afterwards, warm and sated and lazy, finally, finally surrendered, at least for the moment. It isn’t often Olivia is vulnerable, and it pulls at him like nothing else. It makes him feel important, in a world that so often makes him feel insignificant in the grand scheme – there’s always another sick fucker out there, another victim that they’re too late to save. There’s so many people they can’t help, but he can help her, he can save her the way that she saves him, or they’ll go under together. 

It’s always been them against the world, from the first day he met her. 

He presses his lips to her shoulder, to her throat, and he can feel her pulse thudding there. “You don’t always have to win, you know,” he murmurs into her sweat-slick skin, and he tastes salt. He tastes her. 

She sighs, her forehead dipping to touch his for the briefest of moments before he can feel her put her guard up, can feel her build that wall, the distance that lets her tell him _we shouldn’t do this anymore_. 

She’s right, they shouldn’t. They do anyway. 

“Yes, I do,” Olivia answers quietly, and she pulls away.


End file.
